Chapter Fourteen
December, 1946 – February, 1947
Kwonowski donned his overcoat and led Colling out into a fenced yard behind the shop. Two bicycles were leaning against the building’s rear wall, and the electrician invited Colling to use one of them. They rode together to the woods where Colling had hidden Jalesow’s truck.
When he saw the pickup, Kwonowski whistled under his breath to show he was impressed that Colling was in possession of a Soviet Ford, but he stopped short of asking Colling how he had managed to do so. They threw the bicycles into the back of the truck, and Kwonowski told Colling he would show him where to drive.
Once on the main road, the electrician gave directions that took them several kilometers further east of Dwiespestka. Colling had begun to wonder whether the man knew where he was going when Kwonowski suddenly pointed to two pines that seemed to be more widely spaced than the others in the forest on the left side of the road. Colling skidded to a halt, and Kwonowski told him to drive between the trees, assuring him that there was enough clearance for the truck.
A rough narrow track had been cut through the woods, winding in and out between the trees. After some time, the track widened, and Colling could see that it was paved with gravel. They traveled along for a kilometer or so before they emerged from the forest into a wide driveway in front of a two-story villa sheltered by the overhanging boughs of massive firs. The house was white stucco, trimmed in dark wood. Its gables were rounded in the usual style of Polish country mansions. Colling could see outbuildings behind the main house, and as they stepped out of the truck, he could faintly hear barnyard sounds coming from that direction.
The villa’s front door opened as Colling and Kwonowski crunched across the gravel driveway, and a heavily-built man wearing an old-fashioned black formal frock coat came down the semicircular steps leading to the mansion’s entrance.
“Dzien Dobry, Kwonowski,” said the man in accented Polish, “What brings you out here?”
Gesturing to Colling, Kwonowski replied, “Hermann, this is Mr. Krazinsky, from the United States of America. Might we see the Countess, please?”
Colling extended his hand, and Hermann took it, saying, “Welcome, Mr. Krazinsky. I am Hermann, butler to the Countess. Follow me.”
The interior of the villa was expensively furnished in walnut and mahogany. Oil paintings decorated the walls, and there were stands holding bronze and marble sculptures in the entrance hall. Colling guessed that the Countess was not only appreciative of the arts, but had the wherewithal to indulge her tastes.
Hermann ushered them in a book-lined library off the entrance hall and asked them to remain there while he fetched the Countess. Colling seated himself in a chair and leaned back and crossed his legs. He noticed that Kwonowski took a chair as well, but sat stiffly without leaning back, his cap held in his hands. The electrician pointed to the chandelier and said, “Electric lights, no?”
When Colling looked up and noticed that the light from the chandelier did in fact come from electric bulbs, he was taken aback. Before he could comment, Kwonowski continued, “They are too far from town to have use of Dwiespestka’s hydro power. The Count was trained as an engineer. The estate has a water-driven sawmill about a half-kilometer off, and he added a generator right after he bought the place.”
“And that is how you came to know the Countess?” asked Colling.
“For truth. The Count was smart enough to lay in a supply of spare parts, and I have maintained the generator and the electrical system these many years. But a shaft bearing is, I fear, not long for this world, and then, unless a replacement can be brought from Germany, there will no electricity for the estate.”
Kwonowski was explaining something about the voltage differential between the generator and the house when Hermann returned accompanied by a frail white-haired old woman, leaning on his arm for support. The butler announced, “Gentlemen. The Countess von Brechtsler.”
Kwonowski rose immediately and bowed slightly to the Countess, and Colling decided he should do the same. As Colling straightened he looked up to see the old woman staring at him. She asked, “Who is this person, Sebastien?”
“An American, Madame,” said Kwonowski. “His name is Krazinsky.”
Colling stepped forward and said, “Jerry Krazinsky, Madame. From Milwaukee, U.S.A.”
“I know perfectly well where Milwaukee is, young man.”
“Yes, Madame,” said Colling sheepishly.
“And what occasion is it that brings you here?” she asked Colling.
Kwonowski interjected, “Mr. Krazinsky does not wish to encounter the Russians, Madame.”
“Nor do I, Sebastien, nor do I. Am I to assume, Mr. Krazinsky, that you seek shelter?”
“I would be most appreciative if you could provide, Madame. I am prepared to pay.”
“This is not a hotel, Mr. Krazinsky. We do not charge our guests room and board,” said the Countess. She sized Colling up for a moment, then continued, “You speak Polish quite well. Somewhat of a slight accent, but not bad. You could pass for a Pomeranian Pole.”
Surprised, all Colling could think of to say was, “Thank you, Madame. I learned from the family of my mother. They were all born in Poland.”
“What brings you to Poland, young man?”
“A woman friend has been taken by the Russians, Madame. It is possible that she is being held in the camp near here. It is my ambition to free her, if I can.”
“You know of this, Sebastien?” asked the Countess, turning to Kwonowski.
“Yes, Madame. This is why it is important that Mr. Krazinsky have a safe place to stay while he proceeds about his business. He has a motor vehicle that he wishes to put out of sight, as well.”
“Very well,” said the Countess, “Hermann, after you have taken me back to my sitting room, show Mr. Krazinsky where he might conceal his motorcar, and then show him to one of the bedrooms. Sebastien, you may be assured that Mr. Krazinsky will be well-cared for. Mr. Krazinsky, you will join me for supper at eight.”
Colling and Kwonowski waited in the library until Hermann returned from escorting the Countess to her room. The butler showed Colling the stables where he was able to park the pickup. Kwonowski took his bicycle from the truck, leaving the other for Colling to use if he should have a need to return to Dwiespestka. The electrician explained that he knew one of the camp guards, and the man would be in the tavern in town that night. Kwonowski would try to find out if he knew of a young blonde woman prisoner, and would return to the villa with any news the following day.
Refusing to let Hermann carry his luggage, Colling followed the butler to a bedroom on the second floor. There was a bath down the hall, and Colling indulged himself with a hot soak before putting on fresh clothes before he would join the Countess for dinner.
Hermann knocked on Colling’s door a minute or so before eight, and took him to a sitting room at the end of hall on the same floor. A table for two had been prepared, set elegantly with linen, crystal and sterling. They were served a first-rate Zurek soup by a maid whom the Countess addressed as Helga. The soup was followed by thick sliced pork roast in gravy, potatoes and vegetables. The meal seemed more for Colling’s benefit than the Countess, who had been served only small portions and, even at that, picked at her food.
When they were alone, Colling spoke to her in German, asking how she came to be in Poland, instead of Germany. The Countess at first seemed startled that he spoke the language, then pleased. Colling explained that he actually had some formal education in the German language, while he had simply learned Polish from speaking it with his relatives.
The Countess admitted that, except for occasionally conversing with her two servants, she had not spoken German in years. The opportunity to do so seemed to open the floodgates, and she was soon matter-of-factly telling Colling of her background.
Her late husband had been a businessman who had seen opportunity in Poland between the wars. Count von Brechtsler
had established himself with the Pilsudski government and became a success at everything from agriculture to banking. Their primary residence remained in Berlin, but they spent considerable time in their houses in Warsaw and Krakow as well. The villa hidden in the forest was a vacation home where they could escape to the countryside.
They had three children, two sons and a daughter, all of whom had become adherents of Adolf Hitler. Her daughter married a primary school teacher whose ambition for higher station led him to join the SS. The Countess did admit that he looked quite handsome in his black and silver uniform. The Count died in 1936, and the Countess, disgusted by the Nazis’ boorish manners as much as anything, deserted Berlin for the villa, where she had remained ever since. By 1938, both her sons had left the family business in the hands of managers to become officers in the Wehrmacht. She had last seen her older son two months after the invasion of Poland. He had brought a group of his fellow officers to the villa. They had been most gracious and charming, but as they were leaving, her son suggested that he have someone from his unit dynamite the bridge over which the estate’s main access road passed, in order to isolate the place. She had taken his advice, and it had turned out to be fortuitous. The track through the forest that Kwonowski had shown Colling had become the only way in or out. The locals were aware, of course, but neither German nor Russian troops passing through the area had stumbled upon their hideaway. She had helped and supported the Home Army guerrillas who operated in the area, and the villa had remained unmolested. The estate actually consisted of a cluster of working tenant farms, and throughout the war they had been better fed than most.
She had not received correspondence from her children since the summer of 1943. It was assumed that her sons were either dead or prisoners of the Russians, and that her daughter and grandchildren…there were two…had been killed by Allied bombs. Their attachment to Hitler had put the final touch to an estrangement that had begun before the Count’s death, and she had resigned herself to the prospect that she was destined to be the last of the Von Brechstlers.
The Countess asked Colling about his family, and he answered with a mixture of fact and fiction, leaving out any reference to his namesake’s Communist background or his own prior history with the Army. He did go into some detail concerning his objective of rescuing Elizabeth, if she were still alive. The Countess listened intently to his story, but made little comment.
Colling slept well that night in a comfortable bed, a significant improvement over the Polonia and the inns and hostels he had stayed in since leaving Krakow. He awoke the next morning and realized that he had not dreamed of Jalesow. Except for that momentary rush of emotion after striking Jalesow down, he believed himself to have been unaffected by the man’s death. He had been bothered for days after the episode with the German deserters, and he wondered whether killing another human being was something that became easier with repetition.
Hermann served him breakfast alone, explaining that the Countess was not feeling well. Later in the morning, Colling was seated in the library where he and Kwonowski had waited for the Countess, reading another Chapter in For Whom the Bell Tolls, when Hermann put his head in the door and told him they had visitors, and to stay out of sight.
Colling shut the double doors to the library, but remained standing near them in order to learn as much as he could. From what he was able to hear, the visitor was a doctor who had come from Krakow. The physician was conducted upstairs to the Countess’ sitting room, and a half-hour later, Colling heard him speaking to Hermann, giving instructions on increasing the dosage of morphine. Once the doctor had gone, Colling confronted Hermann and bluntly asked what was wrong with the Countess.
“Alas, Mr. Krazinsky, the Countess is gravely ill with a malignancy,” said the butler.
“Is it the cancer?” asked Colling.
“Just so. Her pain requires greater and greater amounts of morphine.”
Colling expressed his regrets that the Countess was so ill. Hermann thanked him in a dejected tone of voice and excused himself.
Kwonowski arrived at mid-afternoon. He joined Colling in the library. He closed the doors behind him, and after removing his overcoat and hat, related what he had been able to discover. The evening before, the electrician had met in the village tavern with the soldier who was assigned to the guard detail at the camp. Kwonowski was of the opinion that the man’s information was reasonably trustworthy, explaining that the guard was a native of eastern Poland who had been drafted into the Red Army in 1944 during the Soviet advance. Prior to his conscription, he had managed four years of successfully avoiding military service. He was unhappy that he was not being allowed to return home now that the war was over, and had no love for the NKVD officers who were in charge of the prison. He did, however, consider himself lucky to be a cook, which was better than standing in a guard tower with a rifle. His duties allowed him access to the prisoners’ quarters to supervise the distribution of food, and he was able to confirm that a young blonde woman was being held at the camp.
That morning, Kwonowski himself had bicycled to the camp to perform routine maintenance on the old generator. In the course of inspecting it, he had managed to strike up a conversation with the sergeant who was assigned to accompany him while he did his work, and ask about the blonde woman prisoner. To provide an explanation about his interest, Kwonowski told the sergeant that there were rumors in the village that she was a German motion picture actress, and asked if she was as good looking as the gossip said she was. The guard had laughed and told Kwonowski, “Not any more.”
When Kwonowski saw the pained look that this brought to Colling’s face, he apologized, but Colling told the electrician to go on with his story.
Speaking gently, Kwonowski continued, telling Colling that the sergeant had said that it appeared that the NKVD was through with the blonde woman, and that she would be sent to the east within the next few days.
Colling asked, “Can you take me to the camp? Someplace where I can look it over?”
“Of course,” said Kwonowski. “Fetch your bicycle and I will take you there.”
Before leaving, Colling asked Hermann if there were a pair of binoculars in the house, and the butler obligingly went off and returned with a large leather case.
Kwonowski and Colling pedalled towards Dwiespestka first, then the Pole showed Colling a place where they could push their bicycles through the woods to the top of a forested ridge overlooking the camp. They moved cautiously to the edge of the forest, remaining concealed behind a snow-covered fallen tree. The compound was about half a kilometer from them, and Colling used the high-powered field glasses to survey the place. There were several wooden barracks, a larger building that Colling guessed was the headquarters where it was likely interrogations took place, and a scattering of other smaller structures. Kwonowski pointed out the shed where the camp generator was located, as well as the cookhouse.
As they watched, an olive-drab car with red stars on its sides chugged into sight on the road below where Colling and Kwonowski were hidden. Beside him, Kwonowski said, “Same time of day, always.” The car turned in and came to a stop in front of the camp gate, which was then opened by as soldier who emerged from a sentry box. The car, which Colling recognized as an old Opel, pulled in front of the main structure. Two uniformed men climbed out of the car and stamped up the building’s steps and disappeared inside. Colling could see that the trim on their peaked caps was red, indicating they were probably Red Army, and not NKVD.
After several minutes, the two soldiers returned, followed by two men wearing Soviet enlisted men’s uniforms. The second pair of soldiers was supporting a man between them who seemed to have difficulty walking, and they were half-dragging, half-carrying his limp form. The man was wrapped in a blanket, but Colling could see that his feet were bare, and that he was probably wearing a pajama-like prison uniform.
Kwonowski whispered in his ear, “The drivers are Russians. They don’t want to have to touch
the prisoners. Afraid of catching something. They let the Polish guards do the dirty work.”
The two Russian soldiers took their places in the front of the Opel, while the two guards half-threw their burden into the back seat. With a cloud of smoke from its exhaust, the car started and was driven out of the camp.
Colling said, “I’ve seen what I came to see.”
The afternoon sun was low in the sky when they made it back to the main road to Dwiespestka. The air had become colder, and Kwonowski wanted to return home before dark. Before they parted, however, Colling asked, “Do you know of some men who might be available to assist me?”
“There are many hereabouts who would be willing.”
“I have money to pay,” added Colling.
“That would be welcome. Times are hard.”
“I will need three men. Good men, not afraid and able to keep their mouths shut.”
“I know such men,” said Kwonowski.
“And three wagons with horses. I will drive one of them. These also I will pay for.”
“Easily done.”
“And some crates with fowl or pigs, small pigs.”
Kwonowski frowned, a puzzled look on his face. “You wish livestock? I would have thought you would want men with firearms.”
“It is my wish to use guile, not force,” replied Colling.
The Pole rubbed his chin, and after a moment’s reflection, said, “Chickens are best.”
“I want nice plump chickens,” said Colling. “A dozen or two.”
“One of the men who will do this with you has such chickens. It will be done.”
“Tell each of the men I will pay one hundred American dollars for their services. And two dollars for any chicken that is not back in its cage after the work is done. You must bring these men to the Countess’ villa tomorrow, so that I may tell them what they must do.”
“Just so,” said Kwonowski, “Tomorrow at 1600 it shall be.”
Early the next morning, Colling went to take the pickup from the stable where it had been hidden. He was already in its cab when Hermann appeared and rapped on the truck’s window.
“Yes, Hermann, what is it?” asked Colling.
“Pardon, sir, but driving this vehicle upon the roads may prove very dangerous. The Russians are known to patrol now and again.”
“But I must use it, Hermann. I have some errands that I must perform that require that I travel some distance.”
“You might wish to use the motorcycle, Mr. Krazinsky. It might prove less conspicuous.”
“You have a motorcycle?” asked Colling, a touch of disbelief in his voice.
“Oh, quite so, sir. Let me show you,” said the butler, indicating that Colling should follow him.
The motorcycle was an older German model with the Zundapp trademark on its sides. It had not been driven in some time, and it took some prompting from Colling and Hermann before it finally sputtered into life. Colling had learned to ride his Uncle Otto’s motorcycle, an old Indian model, around the country roads near the farm where he spent his summers, but he had to ask Hermann to give him some pointers on how to operate the German machine. Colling filled the tank with gasoline from one of the pickup’s jerry cans, and after a few spins around the stable yard, he felt confident enough to take it on the road.
Colling found the motorcycle handled well, in spite of the poor condition of the road and the frozen ruts he encountered. He sought out the route that he discerned led east from the prison camp, and rode until he came around a curve and saw the camp’s cluster of buildings in the distance. He then backtracked, looking for a place where he might put to work the plan he had in mind.
About five kilometers from where he started he found what he wanted. The road curved to the left, sharply enough so that anyone rounding the curve would not have a clear line of sight in the direction from where they had just come. Colling found a suitable place to conceal a horse-drawn wagon in the forest bordering the road. Now it would be necessary to put everything into place and hope that things would work out as he envisioned.
Colling was warming himself before the fire in the villa’s kitchen, watching Helga and Hermann piece together a mannequin from discarded articles of clothing, when the Countess unexpectedly walked through the door.
Hermann jumped as she asked, “Hermann, what is going on here? You have not asked what I wish for lunch.”
“Sorry, Madame,” replied the butler, while Helga dropped what she was doing and went to the stove, saying that there was soup and stew cooking.
“You have still not answered my question,” said the Countess, “What are you doing?”
Colling interjected, “Assisting me, Highness. I have diverted them with a task, and for that I humbly apologize.”
“And what may this task be, Herr Krazinsky?”
“The assembly of a mannequin, Highness. It is my intent to substitute it for the young lady I wish to rescue from the Russians.”
“That will not prove to be a lasting ruse, Herr Krazinsky. If you are able to make a substitution, it is certain to be discovered in short order.”
“True, Highness, but I hope to gain enough time to permit us to put some distance between ourselves and them.”
“And then they will tear this countryside apart looking for you. That will create great hardship for the people who live here.”
“I will instruct everyone that they are to cooperate with the authorities and tell them we have fled westwards,” said Colling, his words more confident than his thoughts.
“I would not think Sebastien will appreciate an interrogation, nor would I or those for whom I am responsible. I would not want the Russians finding my home. They are barbarians.”
This was the one aspect of his plan that Colling had been wrestling with. Try as he might, he could see no way in which Sebastien and the Countess, and the others who would be helping him, would not be subject to harm in the aftermath of his escape. He had no answer, and the only thing he could think of to say was, “If no one resists them, the Russians should have no reason to harm anyone.”
The Countess said, “Hmmpf,” and turning on her heel, told Hermann to bring her lunch to her in her sitting room.
That afternoon, Kwonowski and three men arrived in two wagons. The electrician introduced them, all farmers in the region, and one-time members of the Polish Home Army. Colling took them to the stable and outlined his plan to them as they eagerly listened, offering comments and suggestions to improve their chances of success.
Colling expressed frankly that his main concern was timing. Kwonowski had told him that the transport from the camp took place late in the afternoon, and the electrician repeated his earlier statement. One of the farmers confirmed what Kwonowski said. His was the farm bordering the camp, and he had seen the Russians driving to and from the place on many occasions. He added that the reason for this was that the prisoners were driven only so far as Koltraskow, fifty kilometers away, where they were put on a train to be sent further east. The car had to conform to the railway schedule, so that the prisoners could be placed directly on the train. There was no place in Koltraskow where they could be held, and the station master, who carried some weight because he was a Communist, did not want prisoners waiting anywhere near his station.
When he had finished, Colling reminded them of the risk involved, both to themselves and their families and friends, and offered them to chance to withdraw. None of them accepted, and in fact, expressed their pleasure at the opportunity to irritate the Russians.
Kwonowski explained that one of the wagons was Colling’s, and they would return to their homes in the second. Colling reminded them of the curve in the road where they were to rendezvous the next day at mid-afternoon.
Throughout the following day, Colling was filled with nervous anticipation. He and Hermann placed the mannequin in the wagon under a tarpaulin. Hermann had somewhere borrowed peasant’s clothes for Colling to wear, and Colling repeatedly went over in his mind what
was to take place before the day ended. He realized that they could not be certain that there would be a transport that afternoon, or that when it occurred, that Elizabeth would be the prisoner being transported. He carried his Luger, prepared to use it if he had to.
Just after noon, he set out in the cart, and not quite two hours later, he found the Poles waiting for him beside the road in two wagons at the place he had designated. One of the wagons, with two of the men riding in it, held a high stack of wooden slatted cages filled with quietly squawking chickens. In front of it was the second wagon, driven by only one man. Colling reminded the Poles of what they must do, then drove his wagon far ahead of them around the curve and pulled in among the trees.
An hour had passed before Colling heard the Opel’s coughing engine, and a few seconds later the car passed his hiding place, headed towards the camp. Colling hoped that his companions were now moving slowly towards him as planned. He stood on the seat of his wagon to obtain a better view of the road in the direction of the camp. He estimated he was afforded a clear view of over two kilometers, and he watched expectantly with the binoculars for the car’s return.
The winter sun was bright overhead, and Colling first saw the car as a small moving dark spot in the clear air. As it came closer, he adjusted the binoculars to keep the vehicle in as sharp a focus as possible. He wanted to see into the back seat, but the car was jostling over the road so that it made it difficult to hold its image steady.
It took a split second for what he was seeing to register, then he realized that the figure seated in the car’s rear seat was that of a man. It was too late to try and drive the wagon to warn his companions, and he almost panicked. But then in an instant, he jumped from the wagon seat to the ground and took off running through the woods towards where he estimated the other two wagons would be by now. He broke from the cover of the trees just as the driver of the first wagon was alighting, and Colling shouted at him to get back on his cart and drive into the forest. The men on the second wagon heard him and reacted first, the driver slapping its horse and steering for an opening in the pines. Colling took the bridle of the horse pulling the other wagon and with its driver urging the horse on, managed to pull among the trees just seconds before the Opel rounded the curve. As the car passed, Colling could see that the prisoner whose head lolled back against the seat was indeed male.
Colling told the farmers that they could return to their homes, but to meet again at the same time and place the next day. As he drove his wagon back to the villa, Colling cursed himself for all the mistakes he had made. He had not prepared a way to be certain it was Elizabeth being transported; he had not anticipated the need to call off the rescue attempt at the last minute; he had not even thought it would have to be called off, and now he wondered whether the Russians in the car had noticed the tracks of the wagons they had passed leading into the woods, and whether they would find that strange. If they attempted the same thing tomorrow, would those in the car find it odd that they would pass the same farm wagons on the same road two days in a row?
Feeling utterly frustrated, he unhitched the horse in the villa’s stable, and gave the animal a rub-down to drive out the cold. After seeing that it was fed, he went into the house. Helga had a hot meal waiting on the table in the kitchen, and invited him to sit and eat. Hermann came in a few minutes later and asked why he had not had one of the farm hands see to the horse and cart. Colling snapped that he needed the exercise, and the two servants left him to eat alone.
That night, Kwonowski visited the villa. The electrician had already heard about the false start that had occurred that afternoon. He told Colling that it was almost certain that the blonde woman prisoner would be transported the next day. Colling stopped himself from saying that he had heard that before, and told the Pole that there would be another attempt.
After breakfast the following morning, Colling rode the Zundapp to the place where he had waited with his wagon the previous day. He left the motorcycle covered with some branches and hiked back to the villa. There was less in the way of preparation to be done, and for some reason he could not discern, Colling found himself calmer than he had been the day before.
The rendezvous with the two wagons on the road was repeated, and after positioning his own wagon, Colling uncovered the Zundapp and rode to the place overlooking the camp where he and Kwonowski had hidden themselves two days before. It was not long until the same olive-drab Opel arrived, and the two Russians entered the headquarters building. Soon after, they came out followed by two guards carrying a limp figure between them. Colling recognized Elizabeth’s face, thinner and paler, above the blanket that was wrapped around her.
Colling pushed the motorcycle down the reverse slope of the ridge for a short distance before starting the engine and racing off towards the road. He was well ahead of the Opel, and was already in the seat of his wagon, watching with the binoculars as the car came into view.
The Polish farmers played their parts to perfection. The Opel slid to a stop when it encountered the first wagon slewed across the road, one of its wheels off, and the driver waving his arms excitedly at the car. The second wagon, piled with the cages holding the chickens, was behind the disabled vehicle, and Colling heard a crash as the cages pitched over its side.
At first only the Russian driving the Opel stepped out of the car, shouting in Russian for the Pole to move his wagon. When the farmer continued to run in circles, shouting and cursing, the driver walked forward to a point where he could see that the road ahead around the curve was filled with running chickens, and that two men were trying to catch them. The driver shouted at the other Russian, and he jumped from the car. The two of them ran out of sight around the curve, chasing the chickens.
Colling reached into the wagon bed and pulled at the tarpaulin to uncover the mannequin. He was startled when the mannequin sat up, and he saw that it was the Countess. She hissed at him, “Hurry, before they come back,” and pushed herself clumsily out of the cart. Colling started to protest, but the Countess grabbed him around the waist and said, “Hush. You must help me to the car. Hurry. No arguments.”
Moving as quickly as they could, they reached the car and Colling pulled open the rear door. There was no response as he pulled Elizabeth towards him, then the Countess had taken the blanket and wrapped it around herself. She slipped into the back seat of the Opel and waved Colling away as she pulled the door closed. Carrying Elizabeth in his arms, Colling ran towards the trees, hoping he would reach them before the Russians caught enough chickens to satisfy themselves.
He was in among the trees and shaking out a blanket with which to cover Elizabeth when he became aware that the two Russians were walking towards their car, each carrying a brace of flapping chickens. Colling watched them from the corner of his eye as he placed the blanket gently around Elizabeth. He was shocked at how thin she was, and how light a burden she made as he lifted her into the back of the wagon.
The Russians were laughing at the Polish farmers who were demanding the return of their chickens. They climbed back into their car without even a glance towards the back seat, and driving off the road to avoid the disabled wagon, roared away in a cloud of smoke.
When the Opel was out of sight, Colling trotted over to the three Poles, who were now laughing and slapping their knees in delight. He pulled money from his pocket and paid each of the men as he had agreed, adding a bonus of twenty dollars apiece which he explained was for their false start the day before. By the time Colling returned to his own wagon, the three men had lifted up the first wagon, and were in the process of replacing the wheel that it had lost. Colling guessed that within a few minutes, they would have vanished from sight.
When they arrived at the villa, Hermann and Helga rushed out to the wagon and followed Colling into the house. He carried Elizabeth in his arms up the stairs and into a bedroom that he had asked be made ready to receive a guest.
Elizabeth was in a delirium, semi-consciousness, moaning softly an
d muttering unintelligibly, and he could feel the heat of her fever the minute he had unwrapped her from the blanket. He was about to place her gently on the bed, when Helga waved him away with a flutter of her hands, and told him to wait. She brought large Turkish towels that she placed over the coverlet, then signaled that he should lay her down. He helped Helga remove the filthy prison uniform dress, and it was then that saw the bruises and sores on her legs and arms and the red marks circling her wrists and ankles.
Elizabeth began to shiver, and Helga told him to turn his back while she removed the tattered shift that she was wearing under the dress. Colling left the room as the maid began to gently sponge bathe her. He returned in a few minutes with a length of rope that he strung across the room and then draped with a sheet to screen the bed from the rest of the room.
Helga called to him to have Hermann bring one of the Countess’ flannel nightgowns. Colling found the butler in the kitchen, stirring a steaming pot on the big wood stove. Colling relayed Helga’s request, then followed Hermann as he produced a soft woolen nightdress from a dresser in his mistress’s bedroom. Colling handed Helga the gown over the top of the makeshift screen, and in a few moments the maid announced that he could tell Hermann to bring the soup.
Colling held Elizabeth up so that Helga could feed her the hot broth, and each spoonful seemed to restore some of her strength. After awhile, however, she would take no more and Colling laid her back on the pillows. He placed his ear to her chest and could hear the congestion in her lungs. Colling guessed she had pneumonia. He went to his suitcase and took out the penicillin he had brought with him from Germany. She groaned when he gave her the injection, then dropped off to sleep.
Colling sat in a chair beside her bed for the next three days, leaving only for a few minutes at a time, and then only when Helga took his place. He continued to give her penicillin at six-hour intervals around the clock, estimating the dose based on his experience. Within 24 hours, the fever had subsided. The day after that, she opened her eyes and seemed to recognize him. In her delirium, she had appeared confused by his presence, and Colling did not attempt to explain. In those first days, Elizabeth spent most of her time sleeping, sometimes fitfully as her fever rose and fell, awakening only long enough to permit him or Helga to give her meat broth and soup.
On the fourth day, after Elizabeth seemed out of danger, Colling, realizing he had been remiss in not doing so earlier, asked Hermann about the Countess, expressing his concern with what the Russians might do to her when they became aware that she had been substituted for Elizabeth.
“I would not worry, Herr Krazinsky. There is no sign that the Russians know that this has taken place.”
“I continue to be concerned about the Countess, nevertheless, Hermann,” said Colling.
“I would not be, Herr Krazinsky. The Countess took with her a supply of morphia that had been prescribed to relieve the pain of her malignancy. She stated to me that it was her intention that she would not be alive when they reached Koltraskow. She believed that her death might have some usefulness.”
Colling was appalled at the butler’s revelation: “How could you let her do such a thing, Hermann?”
“Herr Krazinsky, I have served the von Brechtsler family for over twenty-five years, since I was a young man discharged from the Kaiser’s army after the first war. I learned that nothing I could say or do would ever change the Countess’ mind once she was determined upon something. So it is that I do not argue with her. In this she had made up her mind, and was not to be dissuaded.”
“We must mourn her then?” asked Colling.
“Just so. I have had a date of her death engraved upon her tombstone. So far as anyone shall know, she is buried in the graveyard here on the estate.”
“What about that doctor who visits?” asked Colling.
“He will not come again for several weeks. We will tell him that Madame died during the winter when the roads were impassable. That would not be altogether unexpected.”
Kwonowski came to the villa at the end of the week to report that all was quiet. He was amazed that so far there was nothing to suggest that the Russians had discovered that Elizabeth had escaped. Colling told him about the Countess, and tears welled in the Pole’s eyes.
“She was a great lady,” said Kwonowski.
“Quite so. It is sad that she will be buried in some unknown forgotten place.”
“The people hereabouts will not forget her.”
After Colling had said goodbye to Kwonowski, he climbed the stairs to Elizabeth’s room. He found her sitting up in bed, for the first time seeming fully awake. Helga was in a chair beside the bed, the remains of a meal on a tray on the bedside table. When Elizabeth saw Colling, her eyes brightened and as she spoke, the English that Colling had not heard for so long was strange to his ears.
“Jim. It is you. I thought it was a dream. When did you start wearing glasses?”
“Careful,” said Colling, “They know me as Jerry Krazinsky around here. And the glasses are a long story.”
She nodded as if that piece of information was not unusual and continued, “And where are we. This lady said we were at the estate of the Countess von Brechstler. Are we in Germany?”
“No, Poland. In the south, east of Krakow.”
“I was in prison,” she added soberly.
“Yes. The Russians had you.”
Helga rose from her chair and interjected, “I must clear these dishes, Herr Krazinsky. If you will excuse me.”
“Of course, Helga. Thank you very much.”
Elizabeth watched as the maid gathered the tray and left the room.
“If we’re in Poland, why is everyone speaking German?” Colling had a perception by the tone of her voice that she was asking the question to avoid discussing something else.
“The Countess was from Berlin, but her husband did business in Poland before the war.”
“I see. How did ‘Herr Krazinsky’ come to end up here?”
“It’s a long story. How are you?”
“Better, I think. It still hurts when I breathe.”
“You had pneumonia. I gave you penicillin.”
“How did you know where I was?”
“Quarles helped. At least I think it was him. I was given the name of a town and a contact. When I learned there was a prison camp nearby, I figured it out.”
“So you came to Poland looking for me?”
“Yes,” he said, uncertain as to whether to add anything else.
Elizabeth looked down at her folded hands. Without lifting her head, she said, “You might be sorry you did.”
Colling sat beside her on the bed, placing his hand over hers, “I’m not sorry. I’m glad I was able to get you away from them.”
She lifted her head to look directly at him. Her eyes were filled with tears. “Jim, they did things to me in there. Bad things.” She stopped, choking back a sob.
Colling placed his arm around her shoulders, whispering to her, “Shhh. It’s all right. Shh.”
She was crying softly, her shoulders shaking. He held her close and tried to comfort her, but he felt helpless. The quiet words he was uttering seemed useless and empty. At last she drew back, dropping back against the pillow.
“Give me some time, Jim. Just give me some time.”
Colling agreed, sensing that she wanted him to leave. She turned her head away into the pillow as he closed the door behind him.
If it had not been for Hermann, Colling would have forgotten that Christmas was almost upon them. He found the butler decorating a tree that had been set up in a large room across the entrance foyer from the library.
“Not so happy a Christmas this year, Hermann?” said Colling.
“The Countess always maintained the tradition, even throughout the war. I think it is up to us to continue as long as we are able to do so.”
“Just so.”
Hermann did not look up from hanging one brightly colored glass ornament after anoth
er on the tree, as he added, “The tenant farmers will expect a Yule gift. I am not certain what to do.”
“How many are there?” asked Colling.
“Six farmers and their wives and children. Madame always gave them Polish gold coins, but the last of those were gone last year. One gold piece for each man and woman, and some small thing for each child. This year I have made toy wagons from wood for the boys, and Helga has sewed dresses for the girls. But the parents, alas, will have nothing.”
“I have some money,” said Colling, “Not gold, but American dollars. I owe you, and the Countess, much. It is only fitting that I do this.”
“Better Polish currency, Herr Krazinsky. Dollars would be noticed.”
“I have some zlotys, Hermann. A few thousand perhaps,” offered Colling, taking one of the ornaments and placing it on the tree.
“That will do nicely. The farmers are worried that things will be unsettled with the Countess’ death. This will help reassure them.”
Elizabeth’s recovery was proceeding apace. Her fever was gone, and Colling stopped the penicillin injections and started her on tablets, instructing her to hold them in her mouth until they dissolved. He explained that if she were to swallow them, they would be digested and of no effect. She had been out of bed for almost a week when she and Helga discovered that she could wear the Countess’ clothes. The color had returned to her cheeks, and she was no longer the pitifully thin figure that Colling had carried up the stairs.
Kwonowski visited every week or so to bring them news. There continued to be no sign that the Russians were aware that the woman who had died in their custody was not Elizabeth, but there had been inquiries about two men in a pickup truck, one an American. Kwonowski had seen to it that the NKVD men who had come asking had been told that the truck had last been seen weeks ago, during a heavy snow storm, heading towards Krakow, but with only one man, a Pole, at the wheel. The story had to be repeated more than once, as different officers came in their cars, asking the same questions. Finally, the visits had ceased, and Kwonowski guessed that the Russians must have decided that in the blizzard, the truck had fallen into a ravine or through the ice of one of the lakes that bordered the road between Dwiespestka and the city. Kwonowski advised against taking the Ford from its hiding place in the stable.
On Christmas eve, the tenant farmers and their families gathered in a group before the villa, and Hermann and Helga invited them in to see the decorated tree. Both the adults and the children shyly accepted pastries and glasses of hot sweet tea from trays held by Helga and Elizabeth, then Hermann made a short speech in which he noted the Countess’ passing. When he was finished, he distributed to each of the adults envelopes which Colling knew to contain two thousand zlotys. When the last of the Yule money was handed over, Hermann asked for everyone’s attention. He then announced, as he gave each of the six men a large folded vellum document, that the Countess von Brechtsler had bequeathed to each of them the land that they were farming. They were no longer tenants, but landowners.
The farmers and their wives exhibited a mixture of joy and sorrow, and tears flowed freely as they hugged first Hermann, then Colling, Helga and Elizabeth. When some semblance of calm had returned, Elizabeth and Helga sat beside the tree and called the names of each of the farmer’s children and gave them their gifts. Hermann brought out a bottle of Hennessey and poured a small glass for each of the adults. They then drank in unison to the memory of Countess von Brechtsler.
When their guests had gone, Colling invited Hermann and Helga to join Elizabeth and himself in the library. Over a snifter of the French cognac, Colling explained that as soon as the weather cleared, and assuming that the Russians did not discover them by then, that he and Elizabeth would be leaving for Krakow to take the train to Vienna.
Seated comfortably in his easy chair, Hermann looked at Colling over the rim of his brandy glass, then said, “The trains are well-guarded these days, Herr Krazinsky. You and Elzbieta are most likely to be apprehended by the Russians.”
“We have not the choice to walk,” replied Colling.
“Perhaps to go by motorcar,” said Hermann.
“The pickup is not possible,” said Colling, “The Russians are looking for it.”
“Come with me,” said the butler.
After they put on their overcoats, Colling followed Hermann across the snow-covered yard to the stables. The butler led him past the parked Ford truck to the end of the building, to where what was obviously a car was hidden under a piece of lightweight canvas. With a flourish, Hermann pulled the covering off to reveal a black Mercedes limousine.
“It is Madame’s. It has not been on a road in many years, since the summer of 1939. But I have placed it on blocks to preserve the tires, and I have started the engine each month and run it for awhile. I believe that it will function perfectly. I have oil and petrol, and there is grease to lubricate the bearings before it is driven.”
Colling considered this development as Hermann went on showing him the car. He had admittedly been worried about his and Elizabeth’s travelling by rail. He was uncertain as to whether the forged travel documents were still valid, and the American passports could prove to be a fatal giveaway, even though the cover story he had constructed was about as good as he could make it. Another plan began to hatch, and he asked Hermann, “Do I understand correctly that by using this car it will be possible for you and Helga to accompany us?”
“I had thought that, of course, Herr Krazinsky. With Madame gone, there is nothing here for us. We wish very much to return to Germany.”
“What of your papers?”
“We have Reich passports, from before the war, but with endorsements from the pre-war government that authorize our residing in Poland. I do not know how such documents will be treated now.”
Colling gave what the butler had said some thought before answering. Tomasz’ wife and children would presumably have Polish documents, which would be replaced by the American passport and the children’s authorizations that Colling had gone to lengths to obtain. He considered whether the wife’s papers might be altered enough to allow Helga to use them. He still had Jelasow’s identification that Hermann might use. Having an escort authorized by the NKVD might lend more plausibility to their masquerade. Everything was beginning to point towards using the limousine.
He finally said, “I think that it will be possible for you to accompany us. But we must wait until the snows have gone. The roads must be passable. And you and Helga will have roles to play that you must learn.”
“I know I can be of much service, Herr Krazinsky. Many times I drove Madame to Warsaw and other places. The war may have changed things somewhat, but I believe that I can find my way anywhere in this country.”
Colling was more concerned about being caught than with their finding their way, and he asked, “Will there need to be a change in the license plates?”
“I do not know if any differences may exist since before the war. But we have the papers from the Ford truck to look at,” suggested the butler.
There were no registration documents to be found in the pickup. Colling looked at the license plate on the truck to compare it with that on the Mercedes. Except for the difference in the numbers, he could see no discernible distinction between the two. Hermann informed him that the government did not furnish license plates, only the numbers to be used. Each vehicle owner was required to have the plates made in a garage, according to certain specifications, and these did not change over time.
Using the Mercedes would entail a more elaborate scheme that he had imagined would be necessary, but its complicated nature could paradoxically mean that it stood a greater chance of success. Colling made up his mind to take the risk of using the car.
Hermann brought him the papers from the limousine, and Colling saw that it was registered to Produkcja Generalny Polski. Hermann explained that ‘P.G.P.’ was one of the Count’s old corporations in Warsaw. As far as Hermann knew, all its assets had
been either destroyed in the war or seized by the Germans, the Poles or the Russians, who knew? Colling wondered how far the corporate registration would carry them. At least the name ‘von Brechtsler’ was not on the papers, which would be certain to engender questions.
Colling told Hermann he should prepare the Mercedes for a long journey. Fortunately, they had a supply of gasoline from the pickup. He returned to the mansion and found Elizabeth in her room, sitting in bed and reading one of the books from the library. His own aptitude with written Polish was limited, and he envied her access to the contents of the estate’s collection of books, none of which seemed to be in English.
“The Countess had a Mercedes. We’ll be using it to get to Vienna,” he said as she looked up from her reading. He sat on the bed beside her.
She did not react immediately to this news, but then said, “Won’t driving around Poland in a Mercedes be a bit ostentatious?”
“I have American passports for us both. Hermann can go as our chauffeur, and Helga as your maid. We also have to find Tomasz’ wife and daughters first. I brought papers for them.”
“And according to those papers, who will they be?”
“Our daughters and their nanny.”
“My, aren’t we the Ritz! Who are we going to be, the Rockefellers?”
“No. Big shot Communists from the U.S.A.”
She laughed, “Good Lord, Jim. Who is going to believe that? And the little girls won’t pass for Americans. I doubt if they speak a word of English.”
“We don’t let them get asked questions.”
“This is crazy. Besides, if we’re supposed to be American Reds, the Russians wouldn’t just let their guests roam around without keeping tabs on them.”
“Right. That’s why Hermann is going to be a Polish NKVD operative. I don’t think he’d pass as a Russian, or I’d try that.”
“Where are you going to get identification papers for that little masquerade?” she asked.
“I came to Poland as an American Party member. The ruse worked…for a while. They assigned a keeper to me, to keep tabs on what I was doing. I have his papers for Hermann.”
Elizabeth looked uncomfortable as she asked, “Is it best I not ask how you got them?”
“Probably better you not know the details.”
“All right,” She paused, then asked, “But I do need to know some other details. Who are we going to be?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Warrencliffe, III. The son and daughter-in-law of wealthy supporters of the world socialist movement. Dad owns a publishing house that puts out avant-garde stuff that doesn’t sell very well. Money’s inherited, mostly in commercial real estate. The kids, that’s us, have taken things even farther and are both Party members.”
Elizabeth smiled and asked, “Where did you ever dig this story up?”
“From The Daily Worker,” said Colling, taking the folded newspaper from his jacket pocket and handing it to her. “My cousin Jerry… that’s where the ‘Herr Krazinsky’ comes from…was a Party member in Milwaukee. I had my mom send his things to me. I remembered that he had saved a bunch of Daily Workers. What you are looking at is an article about the old man giving a speech at a meeting in New York. Has his picture and bio. Says he has kids, and I thought we could be them.”
“Are they from New York?” she asked.
“From Chicago. Ever been to Chicago?”
“Once, when Daddy took us to a convention there. I was twelve, I think.”
“You’ll have to wing it, but I know my way around Chicago, and can do most of the talking. I’m taking the Daily Workers along to embellish things if we need to. If we get to the point where they want more detailed information, it will be too late, anyway.”
“It will be too late for me, Jim. I won’t let them take me alive. I won’t go through it again.”
“I have a Russian pistol. I’ll teach you how to use it if you want.”
“I would appreciate that. I’d advise you, if you brought that Luger of yours, to think about using it on yourself if you have to. And if you have to, use it on me, too.”
“I don’t think there’s any need to talk like that!”
“I mean it, Jim. You don’t want to know all the things that they do to you in there. You wouldn’t want to go through them, and I won’t do it again.”
He put his arm around her shoulders to comfort her and she rested her head on his chest. When she raised her face to look at him, his lips met hers briefly, and she pushed him away. “I can’t, Jim. Not yet.”
He had been aware that his desire for Elizabeth had grown each day as he had watched her become healthier and stronger, but he had kept both his words and his actions towards her in check, sensing that her experiences in the camp must have been dreadful. Now, as Elizabeth drew away from him, his heart ached with despair for both of them. Even if they did survive, he was certain that nothing would be as it had been in those terribly few happy days they had had together the previous spring.
The New Year came and went. The days passed, and on those when the sun broke through the clouds, Colling and Elizabeth took long walks through the estate’s forests. They exchanged stories from their childhoods, consciously avoiding discussion of Elizabeth’s imprisonment and any recollection of their days together at Frau Bergheim’s.
Kwonowski came to visit and told them that the national elections had resulted in the Russian-sponsored coalition gaining control of the government. Things would be much worse now. Thousands of members of the Home Army had been arrested, and many killed, in the months leading up to the election. Local members were keeping a low profile, hoping not to come to the attention of the Russians or the Polish Communists. Kwonowski counted himself fortunate that his work in the resistance during the war had required him to appear to collaborate with the Germans openly. He was not known locally as a Home Army member, and his technical skills were likely to continue to make him useful to the new regime. He nevertheless had a pessimistic, if not morose, opinion about what the future would hold, and informed Colling he would not jeopardize them by returning to the villa again.
Hermann applied himself to the renovation of the limousine, and before long, he had it out, driving it around the stable yard. One day, as Colling watched the butler working on the vehicle, he commented on Hermann’s mechanical ability, and Hermann told him a little of his personal history.
In his estimation, it had been a stroke of luck that he had been assigned to transportation corps soon after being joining the Kaiser’s army. That was where he learned to drive, and to repair automobiles. After his discharge at the end of the war, he was fortunate to find work in a garage in Berlin where Count von Brechtsler kept his cars, and the Count had come to know who he was. The Count’s chauffeur was killed by a stray bullet when he was unlucky enough to have driven one of von Brechstler’s cars into a street where a street-battle, so common after the war, was being waged between two opposing factions of Strassenkämpfer. No matter how unfortunate this event was for the chauffeur, it proved to be the opposite for Hermann,because he was offered the dead man’s position the following day. He had started as chauffeur, with his duties including repair and maintenance of the Count’s three autos, and then after a time, he was taken into the house and instructed as a butler. He had followed the Count and Countess to Poland, married a Polish woman when the von Brechtslers were living in Warsaw for a few years, and learned to speak fairly decent Polish. After his first wife died of influenza, he married Helga, who had joined the household when the von Brechstlers made a two months’ visit to Berlin.
As Hermann came to the end of his narrative, Colling realized that he did not know the man’s last name, and on asking, discovered that it was Breitmann. Addressing him for the first time as “Herr Breitmann,” Colling began the preparations for the journey ahead of them by explaining what he and Helga would have to be prepared to do to make their escape from Poland successful.